Habit is a compromise effected between an individual and his environment.

I had seen faces in photographs I might have found beautiful had I known even vaguely in what beauty was supposed to consist. And my father's face, on his death-bolster, had seemed to hint at some form of aesthetics relevant to man. But the faces of the living, all grimace and flush, can they be described as objects?

Words are all we have.

It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.

Name, no, nothing is nameable, tell, no, nothing can be told, what then, I don't know, I shouldn't have begun.

Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.

I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.